CHAPTER ONE
Linda Kazinski was
wrapping up her waitressing shift. The last few patrons had stumbled out into
the hot, humid, New Orleans night. She loaded the final batch of beer and shot
glasses into the industrial-sized washer in the kitchen and took off her apron.
It reeked of beer, smoke, and the sweat of hard work. She winced as she noticed
the swellings on her butt from being pinched all night by rowdy men and some
women.
Buster ("Bull") Bronson,
the owner and chief bartender of the Sorry Ass Café and Blues Bar, wiped down
the bar for the twentieth time that night. He wasn't called "Bull" for nothing.
He was a huge, bulging man-an ex-Marine sergeant who used a VA loan to finance
his place. He could put the fear of God into unruly customers and wouldn't
hesitate to use his trusty bat, The Persuader, always at his side. But Bull had
a soft spot somewhere underneath his hard exterior. He looked at Linda
sympathetically. He knew she'd had a tough go of it. Her husband had left her,
and she worked hard to support her three kids, juggling another job on top of
the one at the bar. She was the best damn waitress he ever had, he mused. She
had a near photographic memory for customer orders and always had a kind smile
or word for everyone, including the most obnoxious boozers. But the clientele
at the Sorry Ass weren't exactly big tippers. On more profitable nights, he
slipped a little more beer-soaked cash into her pay envelope-all under the
table, of course.
He usually stood at the
door, watching her make her way down the side street to Main, half a block
away. It was a rough neighborhood, after all, and with these recent murders in
the area, Bull kept an especially close eye on her after closing time. But
tonight, he was distracted by complaints from his blues guitarist over his gig
fees. The musicians were always bitching about something. But this guy was
good, Bull knew. So, as Linda walked out the door, he went over to hear him
out.
Linda was on edge as soon
as she stepped out of the café. James Street was deeply shadowed in the faint
moonlight. The sole streetlight buzzed and flickered dimly, as it had for the
past two months. "One damn street light and the city can't fix it," she
muttered to herself.
Her anxiety grew when she
noticed Bull wasn't at his usual post in the doorway of the café. The garish
red and blue blinking lights of the café faded in the murk as she walked on.
She swallowed as she
looked down the narrow side street. The shops were long closed, those that
could afford it shuttered with burglar bars. The doorways and alley openings
were completely shadowed, and she peered apprehensively into each one as she
passed. The lights of Main Street seemed awfully distant.
Thoughts of the murders,
not far from there in the French Quarter, crossed her mind. Lone women had
walked in dark side streets just like this. Their families would never see them
alive again. She tensed as she heard a doorknob click in the dark to her left.
She hurried on, checking several times for anyone following her.
About halfway down the
street, she heard the roll of a tin can on the pavement somewhere near her. Her
heart racing, she looked back but saw nothing in the street. She told herself
she was overreacting and lit a cigarette. She was startled as the flame of her
lighter illuminated a figure sitting in a doorway a few feet away, its head
resting face down on its knees. The head suddenly rose. "Linda, how 'bout a
quarter? I'm donatin' to the AA."
She breathed out a sigh
of relief. It was only Joe, one of the alcoholic regulars on James Street. She
pulled a couple of quarters from her pocket and pressed them to his hand.
"That's for originality, Joe."
"It's for a good cause,
ya know."
"Yeah, yeah," she said as
she resumed walking. "Watch yourself, Joe," she called back. "I hear the backstreets
aren't too safe these nights." Good advice for herself, too, she thought. What
the hell was she doing out here alone, anyway? She should have had Bull escort
her on a dark night like this.
She took several puffs on
her cigarette, distracting herself with idle thoughts. Funny how nicotine
seemed to lose its jolt after the first two or three drags. No matter. She was
going to kick the habit anyway. Better get a move on. That pimply-faced
babysitter of hers might get it in her head to charge overtime.
She was on the verge of
calming down when she heard a subtle, fluttering sound behind her, steady at
first, then speeding up. "Joe? Is that you? No practical jokes, now.... Come on,
Joe. It's not funny anymore." She listened for a few moments, holding her
breath. There was no reply.
She quickened her pace,
at the same time reaching into her purse for her pepper spray canister. The
fluttering sound grew louder. Her heart pounded in her ears. "Jesus," she
whispered and turned abruptly to face the strange sounds. She thrust out the
canister. "I don't know who the hell you are, but back off. I'm armed." She
fired three squirts in the direction of the sounds, but there were no signs
that the noxious streams had hit their mark.
Panicked, she started to
run all out toward Main. She tripped over a raised manhole cover and fell
heavily to the ground, her spray can rolling away from her. Whatever it was
behind her in the dark was almost upon her.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a rainy Saturday
morning on the river. Jeremy Hale relaxed in his captain's chair on the bridge
of his boat docked at Bay Bayou Marina. A flotilla of drenched powerboats,
small yachts, and sailing crafts bobbed forlornly at their moorings nearby.
A thick fog enshrouded
the river. The passing freighters looked like hulking ghost ships pushing their
way through the gloom to and from the port of New Orleans.
Jeremy had christened his
boat Mississippi Dream. The boat symbolized his love for the river. In fact, he
loved it more than most of the women who'd come into his life. He referred to
the river as "she," for it was his true woman friend-certainly the one he knew
best and trusted most.
But his boat was more
than a symbol. Beginning as a weekend getaway, it eventually became home, his
outpost on the edge of the city. His boat-home gave him refuge from the hard,
tedious, and sometimes dangerous business of being a private investigator in
New Orleans for the past fifteen years. It was practically an antique, built
back in the 1920s. Jeremy had long ago learned to ignore the curious, amused
looks from the power boaters. Only he could appreciate the history in his
boat's thick hardwood timbers, lovingly coated with successive layers of bright
marine paint over the years. But he was a kind of ship's surgeon as well, ever
alert to the occasional spot of rot in its otherwise sturdy hull, which he
would diligently dig out and patch.
The bridge featured an
old wooden captain's wheel, brass compass, and silver-plated ship's
chronometer. A cluster of levers jutted out, apparently haphazardly, from the
control panel. Jeremy had a small cabin with a single bunk adjacent to a
sitting area that doubled as a dining room. This was sparsely but tastefully
furnished with pieces of antique furniture rescued from a late 1800s sailing
ship, including an oak rolltop desk. A small, well-worn pool table also adorned
the room. The sitting area abutted onto a tiny galley with an old gas stove.
His choice of an old boat
was no accident. He had always loved things historical, sometimes feeling
alienated from the high-tech world of 2017; at one time, he had even considered
a career teaching high-school history. He had occasionally wondered about his
attraction to the past. Perhaps, he mused, it was because the past had already
happened; it was set in stone, unchanging. God knows, given what had happened
with his mother and sister, he needed predictability in his life.
The river also gave him
constancy. After all, the Mississippi had generally held its course to the gulf
for eons. A plaque on Jeremy's cabin wall displayed his favorite aphorism: The
great river will always take you to the sea.
But most importantly, the
river was a place of reflection. A few times a week, Jeremy would bring the
boat out for a run. He would travel upstream for hours, giving the throbbing
old diesel a workout. He would then reverse course and cut the engine, allowing
the boat to drift south in the current; occasionally, he'd make minor course
adjustments with the ship's wheel. It was while he drifted that he would have
his deepest thoughts, and at times, insights into his life. Once in a while,
he'd remember Mark Twain's character Huckleberry Finn. He could not help but
notice the parallels between Huck and himself. Huck, too, drifted down the
Mississippi-only on a ramshackle raft-seeking freedom and discovering some deep
and unexpected truths during his journey. Jeremy sometimes laughed at the
comparison. Imagine thinking of himself as a modern-day Huck Finn!
But on this foggy
morning, the boat would have to remain docked in the marina. Jeremy had visited
Dad's Variety Store, next to the marina's repair shop and hardware, to buy
Saturday's copy of the New Orleans Sentinel. The headline and story were
disturbing: Woman Found Brutally Murdered and Raped on James Street.
Thirty-three-year-old waitress and mother of three Linda Kazinski had been on
her way home after closing time, Friday night, at the café where she worked for
the past five years....
Jeremy's brow furrowed as
he read the rest of the article. He was well aware of the half-dozen similar
murders in the old districts and the three levels of police desperately looking
for a sadistic sexual killer. He knew that the investigation had gone nowhere
so far and that the public's fears were growing fast.
Jeremy sighed and put
down his paper. In his university criminology classes, he had studied serial
murderers. He knew all about their profiles and psychodynamics. But he felt
he'd never understood, in any depth, their incredible inhumanity. Somehow, the
theories just didn't seem to measure up to the magnitude of their crimes. At
times, he wondered if there was something much more fundamental, like pure
evil, at the root of it all.
Jeremy spent the rest of
Saturday doing some reading. He liked some of the older detective story
writers, especially Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. He especially liked
that, so far, all the criminals were caught as a result of brilliant deduction.
It was a welcome relief from the real world of investigation.
Just as Poirot was about
to checkmate his suspect, he heard footsteps on the wooden dock and then some
whistling. It sounded like his old buddy, Tony Vasquez, coming to pay a visit.
"Ahoy, Captain!
Permission to come aboard."
It was Tony taking a
friendly shot across his bow. Jeremy played along. "Permission granted, matey."
The two laughed as Tony
joined him in the sitting room, a six-pack of beer under his arm. Jeremy eyed
the beer. "Got your boarding fees, I see."
"Here's your booty," Tony
said, handing over the beer.
The two cracked open a
couple. Tony spied the Agatha Christie book opened on the old desk. "I see
you're spending another exciting weekend on the river," he observed. "No hot
dates tonight?" He knew very well that Jeremy's dates were few and far between,
and never on his boat. Jeremy's gangplank was the boundary between himself and
all romantically inclined women. But Tony liked to skewer him on the matter,
hoping to goad him into getting out once in a while, and if miracles existed,
to date a female or two.
"Bugger," chided Jeremy.
"Well, somehow I don't
think your dating prospects are too good in Bay Bayou Marina."
"Been docked all week,"
Jeremy complained, changing the subject. "The engine's going to rust if I don't
give her a run soon."
Tony nodded. He knew
Jeremy too well to miss his friend's favorite avoidance tactic whenever the
topic of dating came up. The two had been close friends since they were teens
and had gone to St. Vincent's High School together in New Orleans. After that,
they parted ways for a while. Tony had gone on to the police academy and joined
the New Orleans Police Department as a beat cop; Jeremy had won a scholarship
and enrolled in Harvard University's criminology program. Tony was a family man
now, with two kids and one more on the way, but he and Jeremy still managed to
get together on the occasional weekend.
Tony was aware that
Jeremy was only five years old when his mother left the family. Jeremy had
always presented an I-don't-give-a-damn attitude about what she did, but Tony
knew better. It was not that he absolved Jeremy in the matter. His mother had
tried to reconnect with him when he was a teen, but Jeremy ignored her
messages. Now, he was a thirty-eight-year-old man with abandonment issues he
had never faced. Tony was thankful he'd never had that problem. His parents
were about to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary together, along with their
huge extended families.
Tony let the topic of
dating pass by. He'd done his duty for the day on the matter. "Have you heard
about the murder last night?"
"The waitress? Yeah. It
was all over the Sentinel. Same M.O.?"
Tony sighed. "That's what
Jack Claye, the lead, told me. The poor woman was brutalized: raped, strangled,
and had her ovaries removed, if you can believe it. God knows in what order.
There are some signs of torture, too. We're obviously dealing with a viciously
sadistic SOB."
Jeremy slowly shook his
head. "I heard everything but the ovaries and the torture. I gather you boys
held that information back. God, when will it end?"
"When we catch the
psychopath," Tony said, his jaw visibly tightening. "I'm not up on everything,
but I'm plugged in to the grapevine enough to know that the investigation is
going nowhere. No suspects. No decent leads. I hear there's some weird stuff at
the murder scenes, too, that doesn't make sense."
Jeremy could almost feel
Tony's frustration. Tony was not only his closest friend but also a comrade in
arms. He had moved up to detective in the NOPD and often provided valuable
police information for Jeremy's private investigations. Both Tony and the NOPD
valued Jeremy's talents for solving difficult criminal cases that would
otherwise languish in police files. Sometimes, Tony had permission to team up
with Jeremy, but more often, budget restraints meant going the covert route and
passing information on the sly. The chief knew about the practice and turned a
blind eye to it. He was more interested in improving his force's arrest record
and getting commendations from the mayor.
Tony had never completely
understood Jeremy's claims that the river played some kind of role in his
investigations. Jeremy had used a quote one day from Mark Twain's Life on the
Mississippi, attempting to explain to Tony his relationship with the river:
"The face of the water, in time, became a wonderful book ... which told its mind
to me without reserve, delivering its
most cherished secrets as clearly as if it had uttered them with a
voice. And it was not a book to be read once and cast aside, for it had a new
story to tell every day."
Tony had been utterly
bewildered. "Would someone please translate that?" he protested.
"Honestly, buddy," Jeremy
had gently chided. "I think you slept through Literature 301 at St. Vincent's.
It's a metaphor, Tony. Twain has insights while travelling the river." Tony
looked even more mystified.
Tony took a more
pragmatic view of his friend's investigative successes. He knew that Jeremy's
deductive abilities were second to none. He also knew that Jeremy had good
sources in the New Orleans underworld, a carefully groomed list of informants
in the know about other shady types operating just below the police radar.
Jeremy's reach extended even to several jailhouse snitches.
"How's the FBI doing on
the case?" Jeremy asked.
"Well, their violent
crimes unit has been analyzing the case, and there's no end to it. We have
criminal profiling information from them on the murderer coming out of our
ears. Don't get me wrong-a lot of it's really good stuff. Like in many serial
murders, the bodies have been posed, and this has helped the FBI with their
psychological analysis of the murderer. But all of this has not helped us to
narrow down any suspects yet. I get the feeling that the break will come from
somewhere else, and when we've got him, then we'll say, 'Oh, yeah, he fits the
profile.'" Tony shrugged in exasperation.
"The pressure for an
arrest must be high. Word on the streets is that people in the old districts
are definitely scared, and I imagine the mayor must be getting an earful."
"Yeah. Things may get a
lot worse, too. I've heard there's been an unusual number of women disappearing
in bayou country. Some may turn up dead, or at least what's left of them after
the alligators have their way. If it's the same M.O., then God help us all."
"I'm half glad I'm not in
on it."
Tony smiled grimly.
"Well, if things go downhill any more, you'll be asked to join the investigating
team for sure."
Jeremy let his breath out
slowly. "That should make life interesting."
"For the department,
too." Tony grinned. "Just don't tell them about the river."
Jeremy laughed. "Good
shot, Tony. You deserve another beer."
"I've had my limit. But
I'll tell you what I deserve. Why don't you come over for supper sometime? The
kids and I have some great computer games you could learn. There are better
things to do weekends besides reading dusty old crime books. The modern age
lies before you, buddy."
Jeremy smiled. "I'll take
it under advisement, Tony."
The two turned their
attention to the pool table. That usually started a friendly argument about
what game to play, but tonight Tony generously settled for a contest of
snooker.